


Help

by Miracule



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Gen, M/M, Sort of hurt/comfort, because i'll never stop loving freddy best, sort of hurt/uncomfortable silence, this was an old fic that i decided to fix up a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-21 14:12:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4832090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Best trusts Jackson to keep a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help

**Author's Note:**

> let's see.  
> i love fred best.  
> i love homer jackson.  
> i love fred best and homer jackson together. :^) 
> 
> also i know very little about victorian medical practices, so remember that. also i guess there's some mention of bruises and hurting so if you don't like reading about pain (although it is mild) go no further

“How now, Captain?”

Jackson groaned aloud.

That voice—that sharp, familiar sound—cut through the air like a gust of winter wind. Jackson raised his head, squinted against the low afternoon sun, and tipped his hat.

“ _Best_ ,” he muttered.  

“My, my. What a sad state,” said Best, arching an elegant eyebrow. Jackson wasn’t ready for this exchange. Frankly, he wasn’t ready for anything. He had hardly slept and he was sure that his coat smelled of cheap booze, sweat, and old cologne.

Sometimes, he almost enjoyed watching Best flit around the stationhouse and make Reid mad. But he wouldn’t have chosen to face the newspaperman like this. For all he knew, the headline tomorrow would read, _Captain Homer Jackson: Vagrant!_

As always, Best himself looked impeccable. The blue of his lapels was probably the bluest blue that Jackson had ever seen grace the streets of Whitechapel.

“God, man, have you really got the time to torment me?” Jackson managed to blurt out. It didn't sound nearly as threatening as he had hoped. 

“What’s the matter, Captain? Has the good Inspector Ed cast you out?” The tone of Best’s voice implied that he found their living arrangement endlessly amusing.  

Jackson couldn’t exactly blame him. “That ain’t very polite—asking after another man’s home life,” he snapped.

Best shrugged and smoothed down a crease in his jacket.

After a moment he said, “Actually, I suppose it’s lucky that I’ve caught you here.”

Jackson sat a little straighter in defense. “Look. _Best_. I don’t have anything to tell you ‘bout our work _._ ”

For the first time during their meeting, Jackson looked directly into Best’s face and was a little surprised to perceive neither scowl nor sneer. There was, however, a marked crease between the man’s brows.

“I have no inquiry related to police-work,” Best replied, taking his sweet time to state his business.

“Well, how can I help you? You need a doctor?” Jackson asked. He made to take another swig from his wine, only to find the bottle curiously empty. He swore, placed it back on the ground, and began to dig through his pockets for coin.

“Captain, I would—I would ask for just a few minutes of your time.”

Jackson froze in his search. Best’s voice trembled ever so slightly, and Jackson didn’t think he’d ever heard such a plaintive request from the little man.

“Come in and buy me a drink, then.”

“No.” The answer was immediate, although Best hastened to explain to himself—“not here. I’d prefer if we could speak privately.”

Jackson considered that for a moment. _So he does need a doctor, then._ His interest was piqued.

“All right, all right,” he said, taking a moment to steady himself upon standing. “But you’re coming to Reid’s. It’s only a few blocks over.” He looked Best up and down and the newspaper man grew a little pink under the scrutiny. Best straightened his tie and cleared his throat, dropping his gaze.

“Well, then? Shall I follow you?”

Jackson sniffed. “Yeah. And don’t you worry...Reid’s not home. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, anyway...you in _his_ house. He’d love that.”

“Are you _sure_ he won’t be in?” Best asked, with a hint of that usual disdain creeping into his voice.

“Very. The man never keeps me company during the day.”

Jackson heaved a sigh and crossed the street, occasionally glancing backward to make sure that Best was following. They walked in strained silence, and Jackson was grateful that they didn’t have very far to go. Somewhere along the way, Best lit a cigarette, and Jackson almost asked for one before he remembered that Fred Best didn’t like him.  

 

 

“Here we are,” he announced a few minutes later. The lock gave him some trouble, however, and the skin of his neck prickled as he imagined Fred Best glaring daggers into his back as he duked it out with the thing. But when he finally got the door open and chanced a look over his shoulder, he saw that Best had his eyes set down the street.

Jackson whistled.

Best turned sharply toward him and opened his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I don’t think I can...”

Jackson blinked. He had never known the newspaperman to be so coy. 

“Come on, Best,” he said, nodding toward the foyer. “Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

Best’s face twisted into a mask of indifference. Then he nodded, sniffed, and put out his cigarette.  

As Best crept curiously around the room, Jackson dug through Reid’s liquor cabinet for his own stash of whiskey. But he realized that he had nothing to put it in, and he didn’t think that Best would be too happy to swap spit with him. “Here we go,” he said, grabbing two of Reid’s nicest glasses instead.

Jackson poured himself nearly a quarter of the bottle. “What seems to be the problem?” 

He gave the other glass to Best, who stiffly reached out to take it. He took one sip before placing it on Reid’s desk. Jackson drank and waited.

“I...a few days ago, I was...accosted by some young men.” He pronounced each word as if he were remembering how to speak.

“Believe it or not,” he continued, “I’m not entirely unused to being shouted at, considering that people are loath to face the truth of what’s in the _Star_...”

“Best.”

“But...these men—” he broke off, exhaled slowly. “A couple of animals, they were.”

Jackson found that he wasn’t entirely surprised. Best could easily get on one’s nerves. But...he felt for the man. He'd been in the same boat many a time. “Well, come on, then.”

He gestured for Best to come a little closer to the light of the window. The man hesitated, but when he did step forward, Jackson noticed a little bruise peeking out from under his hairline.

“They hit you?”

Best shook his head but touched a hand gingerly to his belly. “Kicked me a few times.”

Jackson grimaced. “And why wait to see somebody? You said this was a few days ago?”

“Yes. Wednesday.”

“New symptoms, then? Pain?” Jackson prompted. Normally, Best was eager to let his opinions fly. Now, getting him to talk was like pulling teeth.

“I think I'm pissing blood,” he muttered.

Jackson blinked. “All right, lemme see where they got you.”

Best’s hand moved to his collar where it quickly froze. To his own shock, Jackson realized that he had no idea what to say. He was usually good with nervous patients, but Fred Best was...well, Fred Best. But he had to say _something_. Bloody urine following trauma wasn’t usually too serious. But he wanted to make sure. It was his job to make sure.   

“Reid won’t know about this. Nobody will,” he promised. “I can keep a damn secret.”

Best huffed as he undid the buttons of his waistcoat. Now it seemed obvious that he was in pain, and Jackson was disappointed that he hadn’t noticed it before. Best could hardly stretch his arms without his breath catching in his throat. Jackson instinctively moved forward to help him and was a little taken back when Best flinched under his touch.

“Easy,” he said, as gently as he could manage. “Take it easy.”

“I know.” Best’s voice was uncanny. There was no venom in it at all. “I cannot help it.”

By the time they got him out of his shirt, Best’s face was ashen and beads of sweat formed a damp sheen on his brow. Jackson led him to the couch, but being helped into a prone position triggered something in Best that made him jab a long finger in Jackson’s face.

“If you tell _anyone_...”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Lie down. Please.”

Best did so, haltingly, and Jackson was finally able to get a good look at the damage. It was ugly, as far as bruises are ugly to look at—all dark and splotchy and yellowing. Luckily, the skin around Best’s liver seemed relatively clear. But there was still the matter of his spleen, his stomach, his bowels...

Jackson placed hand on Best’s bare shoulder. His skin was damp to the touch, and Jackson could just about feel the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Best looked at him anxiously and moaned, “ _What?_ "

“I’m gonna put my hand on your belly; feel around a little.” It wasn’t a question. “I gotta make sure you’re not bleeding. That things’re still working in there and whatnot.”

His patient was silent for a moment. Finally, he gave a jerky little nod and turned to look out the window. In the light, the sweat shimmered on his forehead. Jackson gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. “Atta boy.”

 

 

Jackson was continually impressed by Best’s threshold for pain. Maybe it was his insufferable pride that gave him strength. Regardless, he stayed almost perfectly still. He twitched, he grimaced, and he held his breath, but he didn’t ask to stop—not even when Jackson offered him a short rest.  But apart from the bruising, Best was in relatively good shape. Jackson couldn’t feel anything that was cause for alarm.  

Finally, he knelt on the floor and pressed an ear against Best’s stomach. The man jumped. “What are you—”

“I’m listening to your gut,” he answered, without looking up.  "Sorry, I shoulda warned you." For whatever reason, Best began to shiver.  Jackson wondered briefly if he was afraid, and when he glanced sideways, he could see that Best's fingers were curled tightly into a fist. Suddenly, he felt very guilty. It was clear that the man didn't want to be touched. But there wasn't a way around it.

Jackson finally raised his head and saw that Best's eyes were screwed shut. “Was that necessary?” Best asked quietly. 

“If it weren’t, I wouldn’t do it,” Jackson told him plainly. He sat back on his heels and added, “Good news, Best. You’re okay. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you that won’t clear up on its own. _With_ rest, mind you.”

Best struggled to sit up, and when Jackson offered to help him to his feet, he accepted.  In fact, he brought them closer together by resting a hand on Jackson's shoulder. It was a light touch, but a touch nonetheless. And it lingered. There was something in it that Jackson couldn't wrap his head around.

He lowered his gaze as he waited for Best to collect himself.  

“Shall I pay you?” the man asked, fastening the buttons of his waistcoat.  

Jackson shrugged. “No need.”  He wouldn’t feel right taking money for this. “You could buy me a drink, though,” he added seriously.

Best made a face. “I’m not sure if...”

“Oh, right. You wouldn’t want to be seen around town with me, would ya?”

“Not really,” said Best, without hesitation. “But...” he looked almost guilty for it, “I think...maybe...I could send you a good bottle.” He took another sip of the whiskey that he’d left on Reid’s desk, and Jackson found that there was a bothersome question that remained unanswered.

“I’m surprised that you’d come to me for help.”

Best put on his hat. “Really?” He looked a little smug, even though his face was still pale and pinched with pain. “I think it makes perfect sense. You know how to keep a secret, after all. And you know how it feels to have much to lose, Captain. You won’t give me away.” 

"What is there to give away?  That you bleed and bruise like the rest of us? Shocking."  

Best almost cracked a smile. 

Jackson waved toward the door.  “Goodbye, then.”

“You won’t see me out?”

“You can find your own way.”

The newspaperman hovered by the hall for a moment. “I suppose I should thank you,” he said, and with that, he turned and was gone.  

"You're welcome," Jackson said to the empty room as he reached for his whiskey.  "You need anything else?  Just ask." 


End file.
